They meet under moonless skies
gathering as the red, hot glow
of the day still lingers
and thunder echoes from the mountains.
Naked they come as in birth
perpetual dance, trance like until salt
sweat glistens in the brimstone
threat of the fire.

Hollywood would have us believe
that Mr. Bach and his organ
provide the only background
suitable for the event
300 pipes to serenade
a death both violent and sensual

but surely
it's a delicate and private moment
more suitable for quiet harpsichord
or a soft light jazz
that bends and flows
like long and slightly tousled hair
the scent of jasmine dabbed behind an ear
the upturned neck
skin white and smooth
in contrast to the rough stone crypt
a gentle caress along the vein
lust softly slaked
in a minor key

__________________“I am at the moment writing a lengthy indictment against our century. When my brain begins to reel from my literary labors, I make an occasional cheese dip.”
― John Kennedy Toole, A Confederacy of Dunces

There is her smell
strongly scented in the air
and loved so well
dancing to the loud and corny sounds
of Weird Al
with a bowl of fruit in her hand
her honey taste knows no bounds
Lips sticky with the fruit of the vine
Kissing a beloved woman in.....
my mind.
sight:fall leaves
sound: hushed whispers
taste: bitter, sweet
scent: fresh air
touch: down(feathers)

the air may be fresh
blowin’ in from the west
but baby it’s cold outside

twice around the woodstove
then twice around once more
let’s try a warm up tango
leave those flannels on the floor
hop on under,
my old eider down
snuggle right up
let’s hear that cooing sound
cause baby, baby, baby,
.... it’s cold out there

__________________“I am at the moment writing a lengthy indictment against our century. When my brain begins to reel from my literary labors, I make an occasional cheese dip.”
― John Kennedy Toole, A Confederacy of Dunces

and then you’re gone
and I stand
your scent fresh musk
upon my fingers
holding a wounded scrap of lace

::

This one was hard. The single glove brought only visions of Michael Jackson. I see in hindsight that this poem is maybe a reflection of the first poem I posted on lit. just over a decade ago. (Shameless plug.) Same theme, different voice and ten (perhaps rather wasted) years. Sigh.

__________________“I am at the moment writing a lengthy indictment against our century. When my brain begins to reel from my literary labors, I make an occasional cheese dip.”
― John Kennedy Toole, A Confederacy of Dunces

False laughter
escaped from her lips
as I made lewd innuendo
Twitch of eyebrow
What did he say?
Huff of realization
Flashing slap of red
Glove returns backhand
no gentle tap
Champagne cool splash
drips from face
Woman stalks away
Smoke seems to drift
behind her
Another date goes
down in flames

There was a saltiness to the hidden skin behind her left ear
remnants of the time spent at the water's edge
Here, in this room
memories of their time already escaping
leaving behind only cloudy visions teasing like the long forgotten song
of a distant piano

She is naked, save the sheet retaining her modesty
strands of her hair falling so precise
they are easy to mistake as part of the embroidery
Hair that smells sharp, reminding him of the ivory soap
once abandoned in a hotel room

No one writes songs about flannel sheets and the warmth they hold
wars are not waged
She will one day forget the easy comfort of these arms
As the minutes become years they will no longer recognize one another
across an empty street

Stretched fingers flex and crack
as teared eyes cloud in the dying
phrase like a storm sighing
a final drop on a breath
of spring thawed gutter.

A bowl sparkles like frozen
drips off the eaves in the sun;
broken through the scattered
nimbus, highlighting the crisp
snap of juicy pear that weeps
a version of sweet nectar
plumping velvet flesh.

She prays it will stay white
like the dress standing
patiently in her room,
her fingers playing the pearl
buttons strung along the graceful
curve of spine like the notes
of the melody she weaves.

A Christmas wedding cake
scents the air with almond
fondant and a thousand
treasures tucked within.
Yet still she plays a song
of a single drop on a journey
toward a great vastness --
a metaphor, perhaps, of steps
she will take on the morrow.

Sight: bottles of water
sound: fan
scent: mould, or something like that
touch: gritty
taste: smoke

__________________“I am at the moment writing a lengthy indictment against our century. When my brain begins to reel from my literary labors, I make an occasional cheese dip.”
― John Kennedy Toole, A Confederacy of Dunces

Sight: bottles of water
sound: fan
scent: mould, or something like that
touch: gritty
taste: smoke

::

I’ve been away too long.

Sophie welcomes me
from behind the counter
and steals a kiss.
Campari and a hint of unfiltered cigarette
dance for a moment on my lips.

I take the sofa by the door
all coffee stains and mildew.
It’s usually empty
because a howling vent
blows summer’s grit or winter’s chill
straight down your neck.

It’s mostly students
clutching their phones
sacred talismans
to ward off loneliness
and their water bottles
like Kalahari bushmen
planning some sojourn
into the wasteland – I think of EliotI shall wear the bottoms of my trousers rolled.
In my absence
the erogenous has shifted
from low slung jeans
and a slice of midriff
to tights and tall boots
a modest improvement

I buy you Cuban cigars very dear,
permit a dark man to lay silver
and amber on my flesh. His hands
are warm and moist on my neck.
I drink tequila pin up my hair
and flash the necklace. When I leave
a different guard says American
Girl and lets me pass, cigars hidden
deep in a pocket, salt in the air on
my lips but I don't look back.

Breakfast begins with the aroma
that hangs in still air before
the downing of whole fried catfish
in chili pepper sauce
while cruisin' the bayou
in hot wet robes and a jetboat
watching schools of the slow fish
scamper by.
O Louisiana I long for thee.

picks his way through madness
like a gigantic grey cat
accepts 5 Baht from a delighted child
with a touch of his distressed-denim trunk

Overhead cracked ash highways
groan under the weight of a city
on 15 foot high legs

He lumbers on.

The smell of Durian reaches
cutting through the diesel fumes
like temple bells ring clear
over car horns and digital beeps

Goodness.
He finds it--
Sliced on a plate at the corner Spirit House
between bottles of bright red Fanta and jasmine garlands
Sweet custard intoxication
that could only be improved
served sliced on a bed of sticky rice.
*********

__________________“I am at the moment writing a lengthy indictment against our century. When my brain begins to reel from my literary labors, I make an occasional cheese dip.”
― John Kennedy Toole, A Confederacy of Dunces

Last night you protested
into the floor after I rolled
you onto your belly, determined
to show you what I love
and you find so repulsive.
Two towels beneath your hips
lifting your wonderful ass up
and giving your hardened cock
something to cum into, softer
than the synthetic twist of nasty
green every hotel decor screams
is neccessary on every floor.
Nostrils flaring as the heat
of you invaded my senses,
your scent reminiscent of bitter
salts that lingers after tequila
shooters, my tongue insinuated
and coaxing pleasure as I coerce
consent to go there and let you
feel insertion, invasion, intrusion
of that place your masculinity
avoids finding joy in. I love you.
"Now boarding Gate Thirty-Two."
Our kiss farewell still tastes
of bitter tequila and of intimacy.

Salted and strong an acrid tang bringing thirst
the cries of those that see and wonder
cold but warming quickly in firm grasp
a chemical camouflage to hide the rot
the pinpoint moon reflections on the water below